


Game On

by Saziikins



Series: Family Ties [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gambling Addiction, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set almost 10 years before His Last Vow, this is the story how Greg and Sherlock met at a casino in Leicester Square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game On

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted to do something a bit different for their first meeting. I know next to nothing about counting cards, and this is all probably a big ol' exaggeration of how it happens, but hey, it's fun anyway.

Three men had sat on the red stall on the left side of the table in the past two hours. None had been as unsuccessful as the one with the greying hair. Still, he remained sat there, winning occasionally before blowing the lot.

He was a policeman. The outline of his badge was evident in his trouser pocket, but no one else had spotted it. Sherlock had.

The man had first come to this casino on a job two days ago, chatting to the staff with another officer. He was supposed to be investigating drug use at the venue, although he was off duty now. He’d brought himself here on some faux undercover mission, a lie within itself. He told himself he came to investigate. Really, he came to play cards.

Sherlock was watching him. He wasn’t sure what it was about this man that was so different to the others. The contradiction was certainly intriguing. The custodian of society versus the reckless gambler. The trusted and respected man. Well, he had to be, to have been made Sergeant. But he didn’t mind a little risk. Craved it, in fact.

He was gay too, judging by the way his eyes followed the waiter as he delivered the man another beer. Oh. No. Bisexual. Well, that was fine, Sherlock could still work with that.

Not that he needed a partner, but it hadn’t been since his university days that he counted cards, and he’d always been curious about how well it would go when two people worked in tandem.

It would be taking a bit of a risk though, seducing a policeman to cheat the casino. It was a challenge in itself, and that was also appealing. Besides, Mycroft would get him out of jail if it came to it. At least he’d be behind bars for counting cards and cheating and not for doing drugs, and Mycroft would certainly find that preferable.

But back to the man in question. He’d lost again. He stood up, holding his hands up. “I’m out,” he said, walking away. He carried his beer to the bar, leaning against it and watching the football on the screen behind the bar. He still had some money in his wallet, he wasn’t ready to leave yet. He kept glancing at the door though. He wanted to leave, Sherlock realised. And so he recognised he had a problem.

He was addicted to the winning. And that gave Sherlock an in.

Licking his lips, he strolled over to the bar, leaning against it, standing perhaps just a little too close to the other man. “A lemonade,” he said, reaching into his pocket to take out his cash. He passed the £20 note over. He glanced at the other man who was watching him with an amused expression.

“So you don’t watch the tables, you don’t play and you don’t drink either,” the man said with a grin. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock smiled, taking back his change and his drink. He turned round to lean against the bar, watching the action around the room. “I’m observing,” he said.

“Observing what, exactly?"

Sherlock nodded towards the tables. “The players. That man with the green tie. He has got a good hand, but he’s unsure about whether to play it. The woman opposite thinks she’s winning, but she’s wrong. But she might win the hand anyway. Mr Green tie doesn’t like his chances.”

The man frowned, turning round to face the action too. Their arms brushed together. Sherlock didn’t pull away from the contact and the other man didn’t either. Good. Then he was interested in the conversation, and potentially interested in Sherlock’s body too.

They both stood in silence, sipping their drinks as the woman won the hand and took her chips with a triumphant grin.

“How’d you do that?” the man asked, staring.

Sherlock smirked. “I observe,” he said.

“But you don’t even play. I saw you, like an hour ago. You were just staring into space.”

“Watching me, were you?” Sherlock murmured.

The man froze, opened his mouth. “I didn’t say that,” he finally managed.

Sherlock offered him a cool smile. “It’s fine if you were,” he said. “I was watching you.”

“You. You were watching me? Why, exactly?”

“You were losing. Rather a lot.”

Greg sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. “Yep.”

“But you like to win.”

“Course. Who doesn’t?”

Sherlock held his hand out to him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

The man took his hand and shook it. A solid handshake, one which conveyed absolute integrity. “Gavin,” he said. “Gavin Lestrade.”

Liar. He was ashamed of this gambling habit of his. Ashamed enough to hide his name and his job title. But he was still here, playing with fire. Taking risks. Playing to win.

Sherlock turned his head to study him. “Would you like to win?” he asked.

The man laughed. “Of course.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned towards him. He brushed his lips against his ear as he whispered “trust me. I can show you how to win. Do you want to play the best game of your life?”

The man took a sharp inhale of breath, his body tensing. Wrestling with his morals, trying to understand the implications of Sherlock’s question. Finally he lifted his chin. “Yes,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “Will you show me?”

“Toilets. Three minutes.” Sherlock smiled at him and stood up straight. “Best of luck at the tables then," he said. Without waiting for an answer, he strolled towards the gents, not even looking back. He didn’t need to. He knew the man was watching him.

He was staring at his face in the mirror when Lestrade walked in, glancing around. “It’s fine,” Sherlock said, not turning to look at him. “It’s empty. No one uses these toilets. The ones upstairs are larger and have pictures of naked women on the walls.”

“Right,” Lestrade muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You have one job, and one job only,” Sherlock said, turning to face him. “You’re the gorilla.”

Lestrade laughed. “I’m what?” he asked.

“When you leave these toilets, you buy yourself another beer and a chaser of something. You sit and you drink them. Then you go to the table with the blond croupier with the lovebite on his neck. You bet. And you bet big. You drink, but not too much. I do actually need you to be useful. All you need to do is remember five words.”

“Five words?”

“Yes. When you hear them, you bet big. And these are the five words: Lovebite. Blow. Deep. Fast. Harder.”

He watched Lestrade’s eyes darken, watch his throat as he swallowed. Yes, those words had an impact. And he was certainly an attractive man. Older, refined. An expensive wine. “And if you succeed, I’ll let you take me to your house and do all of those things to me,” Sherlock said with a triumphant grin.

Lestrade stared at him. “You’re mental,” he murmured.

Sherlock smirked and stepped forward so their faces were barely inches apart. He took out his wallet and counted out £700 of Mycroft’s money. And then he reached into Lestrade’s back pocket. The man gasped as Sherlock fished out his wallet, shoving the money into it. Sherlock pressed his hips forward, just enough to press against Lestrade’s half hard cock for barely a second.

With a smile, he dropped the wallet into Lestrade’s hands, raised his eyebrows and turned and walked out.

He went straight to the table in question. He took a seat, glancing around, pretending to be bored. He knew he was going to probably lose a few hands, but that was fine. It would take a little while to get up to speed anyway.

He watched as Lestrade left the toilets a few minutes later, heading straight to the bar. Sherlock made some small talk with the croupier, but mostly he appeared disinterested as he yawned and shuffled his feet. All for show.

Lestrade joined him 25 minutes later, taking his jacket off as he sat down. His shirt, though faded and around two years old, clung to him in all the right places. He had broad shoulders, strong arms. In every sense, an attractive man in his 40s. But single. Curiously single. And childless.

So either he had some stinking self-esteem issues or he saw himself very much as a loner. Sherlock resented how much he identified with that.

He and Lestrade didn’t even look at each other as the first rounds were played. Lestrade played his hands with gusto, winning a couple, mostly losing.

But not losing half as badly as a short, weedy man wearing a turquoise shirt was.

And as the cards lined up in Lestrade’s favour, Sherlock turned to that man. “You’re going to blow all your money if you’re not careful,” Sherlock said to him with a raised eyebrow.

Lestrade played the hand big, but not placing down any more than he had a few goes before. He won. He took the lot.

Sherlock had no idea if Lestrade had ever been an undercover policeman, but he would have been good at it, he mused. He never looked at Sherlock more than at anyone else around the table. He did his job with precision. Soon, Sherlock knew he was sitting pretty on enough chips to be worth a cool £1,500.

They played more hands, losing sometimes, winning less. Sherlock questioned the croupier about his lovebite, and Lestrade played big. And he was up to £2,000 and it wasn’t enough to satisfy either of them yet.

“This is harder than I thought,” Sherlock said, losing a hand on purpose. His heart was pounding in his chest, watching as Lestrade took the next hand.

“My lucky day,” Lestrade said with a grin. “Fortunes are changing.”

He lost the next. He played too big, far too big. He had got too confident, too cocky. And he wondered why he so rarely left the casino feeling like he’d won.

But once Lestrade had more than trebled the initial £700 Sherlock had given him, he his face began to fall. He realised what he was doing. All that effort he’d put into being a good man, wasted away. Cheating.

He collected his chips and then walked away to cash them out. He caught Sherlock’s eye and they walked separately to the exit. They left. Sherlock kept walking ahead of him, down past the cinemas and the shops.

He stopped outside the tube station. Lestrade nodded at him. In honesty, if the bloke had run off with the money, Sherlock wouldn’t have cared. It was Mycroft’s cash anyway.

But he didn’t.

He’d cheated the casino out of a few thousand pounds, and yet he was moral and honest in every other regard. God. There was something very compelling about him, wasn’t there? Fascinating. 

They walked down the steps together, getting on the same tube carriage and sitting opposite each other.

Lestrade nodded when they reached his stop. They walked back outside. The sun was just beginning to set. “You still coming to mine?” Lestrade asked as they walked, arms brushing together every few steps.

“I had intended to,” Sherlock replied. “That is, if you still want me?”

Lestrade laughed like it was an absurd question. They took the lift to Lestrade’s flat on the fourth floor. He let them in. It was tatty. A bit untidy. A bachelor’s pad, unkempt and uncared for. He spent his money on the tables, not on possessions, beside his wide-screen television.

But he was honourable. Oh, wasn’t he ever? He sat down at his kitchen table and he held out the money to Sherlock. “Here you go,” he said.

“We won it together,” Sherlock told him. “Split it.”

“Nah. You take two-thirds. That’ll give you your stake and profit. I’ll take the other £700.”

Lestrade did just that, counting out every note with a shake of his head. He’d clearly never taken home this much before. After handing Sherlock the money, he bit his lip and shrugged. “Well,” he said. “Thank you for that. It was fun.”

“Never again though?” Sherlock murmured, watching him. “You should quit. You’re terrible at gambling.”

“I realised that after watching you,” Lestrade said with a frown as he stood up from the table. “So do you do that every week? Pick some bloke up and win you both money?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Just you. Usually I buy cocaine, but I got out of hospital a week ago. I’m trying to get clean.”

Lestrade stared at him. His hand twitched. Wrestling with the knowledge he was stood in his flat with a drug addict. He shouldn’t accept drug use, not in his profession.

“You’re a police officer,” Sherlock said, stepping towards him.

“How did you…”

“I observe. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Lestrade stared at him. He swallowed. “I’m older than you,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “By 13 years. Problem?”

“I. A bit. Maybe. Why me?”

“You’re interesting,” Sherlock said. “And I’m bored. I miss drugs. I can’t concentrate on any of the things I used to find interesting. But you can keep me occupied tonight.”

“I can, can I?”

Sherlock smirked. He placed his hands on Lestrade’s hips. “Lovebite,” he murmured, annunciating. “Blow. Deep. Fast. Harder.”

Lestrade groaned. “Bloody hell.”

Sherlock took hold of Lestrade’s hands, placing them on his shoulders. And then he kissed him. He surrounded his nose and taste buds in beer and whiskey and cigarettes. He let Lestrade press their bodies together, both aroused and desperate.

He groaned as Lestrade backed him up against the wall, tugging at his belt and dropping it down onto the floor. They yanked at each other’s clothes.

It had been a few years since Sherlock had last been with anyone, and he’d forgotten it felt like this. Endorphins in his head, swimming around and relaxing him. No more thoughts.

His lips were tender from the assault on his mouth from Lestrade’s lips and teeth but he craved more. Lestrade’s torso was just as strong as he imagined it was, hair between his pectoral muscles, trailing down, down past his belly button. He stripped Sherlock down to his boxers, until his trousers were down around his ankles, kissing over his neck, his hands wandering along his chest.

He made soft, appreciative sounds as Sherlock gripped his arse, pulling them both tight together. Oh God. Wanted. He was so wanted and desired, surrounded in this attractive, curious, complicated man. Lestrade stepped away, grabbing his hand. He tugged Sherlock into his bedroom, shutting the door behind them even though they were alone.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his greying hair, rubbed his thumbs against his nipples. He was rewarded with a low groan from Lestrade’s mouth, and he captured the noise with a kiss.

He was so hard, his cock pressing against Lestrade’s thigh, needy whimpers coming from his mouth as Lestrade palmed his erection. He sunk down to his knees, pulling Sherlock’s boxers down as he went. He kissed along Sherlock’s thighs and stroked his hips before wrapping his lips around his cock and taking as much into his mouth as he could.

He was no expert, not really, but the warm, tight, wet heat sent Sherlock’s body into overdrive. And as he shook and dug his fingers into Lestrade’s head, he saw lights behind his eyes and pleasure and perfection.

Lestrade let him go, and Sherlock trembled.

“You want me to fuck you?” Lestrade whispered, gazing up at him with those dark brown eyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. “God. Please.”

Sherlock turned around, bracing his hands against the wall. He waited, catching his breath as Lestrade opened a drawer, retrieving lubricant and a condom.

A firm finger pressed against Sherlock’s entrance just minutes later and he tilted his head to give Lestrade's lips and teeth access to the sensitive skin on his neck.

There was the burn, of course there was. His body rebelled at the intrusion a little, as if wondering what on earth he was doing. But Lestrade stroked his balls, pressed his fingers against Sherlock’s perineum, and Sherlock was putty in his hands. He rolled his hips back, accepting the finger inside him, using his forearm to muffle the sounds coming from his mouth.

And even when he said “more, I’m ready,” Lestrade kept up with one finger, fucking him with it, torturing him. Then finally, another finger. The burn was good, heady. He was being stretched, prepared, because he was wanted. God, and he was hard and panting and it it was all a little unbecoming.

Lestrade pulled out his fingers and then thrust home with one movement and one deep groan. Sherlock pressed up against him, urging him on, willing him to find a relentless pace. He honoured Sherlock’s unspoken wishes like he could read the very depths of his soul.

His fingers dug into Sherlock’s hips as he hammered into him. His cock brushed against his prostate with every thrust, and Sherlock curled his toes into the carpet, grasping at the wall.

He was on fire. Noticing small things. The perspiration on his top tip. His hair falling into his eyes. His thighs shaking, his cock twitching, needing release.

Lestrade wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and brought him to climax with a flick of his wrist. Sherlock’s body pulsed against him, and Lestrade came too, his lips on Sherlock’s neck. They stood, panting. Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He waited for Lestrade to step back, to pat him on the arse and say thanks. And then Sherlock would be on his way, thoroughly fucked and mellowed out for now.

But Lestrade nuzzled his neck. He gave Sherlock one gentle squeeze, kissing as far down his spine as he could reach. Then he stepped back. He collapsed down onto the bed on his back, gazing up at Sherlock with half-lidded eyes. He patted the bed beside him.

Sherlock frowned. He grabbed the box of tissues from the bedside cabinet and cleaned himself up. After tossing the box at Greg, only then did he take a place on the bed beside him. They lay on their backs beside each other.

“That. That was amazing,” Lestrade breathed out.

“Mmm.”

“Been a while.”

“Likewise.”

From beside Sherlock, the phone rang. Greg groaned and rolled onto his stomach, reaching over Sherlock’s chest to retrieve it. Sherlock closed his eyes. He could still feel the intensity of his orgasm through his whole body, his muscles relaxed, his limbs tingling, his usually restless mind still.

“Yeah, it’s Greg,” Lestrade said beside him. He was stroking Sherlock’s shoulder with his fingers, almost tickling. “What did… sorry? No.” Lestrade sat up with a start. His face turned ashen as he listened to the person at the other end of the line. “How did he… when?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at him. Lestrade tightened his grip on the phone. His bottom lip tightened as he tried to keep from breaking down, then it trembled, then the first tear came. Sherlock lay there. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stay here either, but now Lestrade was putting down the phone, his whole body shaking.

Sherlock pulled back the covers and pulled them over them both. Lestrade was sobbing. It was distracting and unwelcome. Sherlock patted his shoulder, frowning.

“You. Y’can go,” Lestrade whispered, holding his head in his hands.

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock asked, watching.

He wasn’t used to this. Mummy and father never showed too much emotion, and Mycroft always reminded him it was better not to give anything away. It was interesting. Lestrade was positively overwhelmingly human, and it was still not boring.

Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock nodded and lay back down.

Several hours later, Lestrade whispered that his dad had died. That they hadn’t spoken in the past few years. They’d always had a turbulent relationship. But Lestrade’s gambling problem, him borrowing money from his parents, had become a real problem.

Sherlock told him his drug addiction was a problem for his family too. They hadn’t disowned him yet, he said. Not yet.

They didn’t touch as they lay in bed in silence. When Sherlock left the next morning, he couldn’t resist stealing a kiss from him.

“So, I guess I won’t see you again then,” Lestrade said as Sherlock reached the door to leave the flat. “I’m uh. Gonna stop the casinos.”

Sherlock smiled at him as he turned back to face him. “You’re interesting,” he said. “I’ll see you at the casino on Monday.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No more gambling, I said. Wait, what’s on Monday?”

“The owner gets a new shipment of drugs in,” Sherlock informed him. “Come by at noon, you’ll get your arrest. I’ll be around.”

With a curt nod, Sherlock walked out of his flat.


End file.
